The Danger Game is my term for schizophrenic episodes. I don’t get them much, only when I am tired. Some people have them all the time. Instead of guessing if I am dying, I have to guess if other people are trying to hurt me. It’s tricky, and I always think they are, and they never do.
Why all the names? I don’t know. I guess I like the idea of them being a Game.
It means that someday, maybe, I might just win.
CHAPTER 3 WEDNESDAY IS WORSE
Ms. Hugger let me eat lunch in the cafeteria on Wednesday. I ask all the time, since that is where the normal kids eat, but we only do it twice a week. She says any more than that would be “putting a strain on” me. Crowds bring out the Danger Game, and that one never ends well.
But ironically, I like watching people. I think I even like people in general, most of the time. I just can’t talk to them because we don’t speak the same language. One of us has to learn.
I bit into my peanut butter and jelly and mayonnaise sandwich (salty, sweet, and tangy!) and watched as three girls walked by: Raya, Liz, and Ashley. They were the same age as me but popular and therefore not crazy on the outside. Ashley saw me watching them and made a face.
“Why do they let Psycho Sara in here? She’s going to kill us,” she whispered except loud enough that I could hear. She had always been a terrible whisperer.
The other kids seemed to say that a lot—that I was dangerous and wanted to hurt them. The idea was a little insulting. Why would my brain want to hurt them? It was busy hurting me.
Ms. Hugger looked up from her cell phone and scowled. “I am going to report that girl.”
“It’s fine,” I said.
“It’s not fine.”
Ms. Hugger’s cell phone buzzed, and she glanced down, frowning.
“It’s Sven. I have to step out and take this,” she said. “You all right for a moment?”
I nodded and took another bite of my sandwich.
She hurried out, and I was suddenly alone in the busy cafeteria—a rare occurrence. Actually, I am almost never alone at school. It’s strange, because I always feel lonely here.
I wasn’t alone for long.
“Talk to her,” a boy said, pushing his friend and laughing.
It was Taj. He was a football player—burly, athletic, and intentionally dim-witted, which is my least favorite type of personality. He was with Tom, who was all of those things but maybe nicer.
He was also best friends with my favorite people-watching target of all. More on that later.
“Leave it,” Tom said.
“She likes you,” Taj replied, winking at me. “Right, Psycho Sara?”
I told you they called me that. I guess it has an alliterative ring. Sometimes I call myself that name when I’m not thinking.
I felt my cheeks go warm. He gave Tom another push.
“C’mon, Tom’s cute, isn’t he?” Taj said, grabbing for Tom’s arm.
Tom yanked it away, flushed crimson now, and Taj sighed.
“Fine, fine. I guess it would be an awkward date.” He wandered over to my table and picked up my sandwich, looking it over. “At least you eat. You are a human, I think. Except … what is that white stuff? Is that mayonnaise with PB and J? Ugh. I take it back.”
“Leave her alone, man,” Tom said. “You’re sick.”
Taj laughed. “Just joking around. I know she’s retarded.”
He put the sandwich down, and I kept my eyes there. I hate that word. They call me that one a lot too. I hate the way it sounds. I hate what it means to them. That I am not like them because I am broken. Because I am most definitely not normal.
And now I also hated that I had mayonnaise on my sandwich because obviously that wasn’t right, and I didn’t know that. Now I wasn’t hungry, and my stomach hurt. I stared at the sandwich, and I hated the girl that had wanted it because she wasn’t right either.
I knew that, of course. I just liked to pretend some days. Just for lunch.
But I could not say those things to Taj. I couldn’t say anything he would understand.
I am a blue whale, and my songs are only noise to anyone but me.
He hurried away just as Ms. Hugger returned.
“Did he say something to you?” she asked.
“Not really,” I whispered, putting my lunch away. “Just called me a retard, is all.”
“I’m so sorry, Sara,” she said. “I will go talk to Principal Surrin—”
“Can we go back to our classroom now?”
“Yeah,” she said softly. “Let’s go.”
She led me back to the Crazy Box, and my brain called me a retard the whole way there until I said, “Yes, I know I am. You don’t have to rub it in.”
Then Ms. Hugger closed the door behind us, and I sat down and tried not to cry and failed.
* * *
When I got home, I went to my room and took out my list. It’s written on one of those big spiral notepads with lots of lined pages. The first page had a scribbled title:
Rules for Being Normal
I started it two years ago, and I had been adding to it ever since. I flipped through the pages. There were a lot of them. Some of the rules had been crossed off, which meant I had actually accomplished it, but not many. Not enough.
I went right to the end and added the newest entry.
137. Don’t put mayonnaise on your peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
Then I went to the beginning and started reading them slowly, to remember. I do that once a day. I knew that if I tried hard enough, if I spent every day reminding myself that I was not normal but maybe I could be, then I had a chance to get better. I could be Normal Sara. I didn’t know what she was like. I don’t even know if she ever existed, even before the broken mirror. But she had to be better than this.
“Fifty-seven. Talk to somebody your age. Fifty-eight. Try to make eye contact with a stranger. Fifty-nine. Don’t go the bathroom to calm down for one entire day. Sixty. Try to be …”
* * *
We have pasta on Wednesday nights. Sometimes my mom would try rotini noodles or a thick Bolognese sauce, but my dad and I always complained. We liked plain noodles and plain sauce and routines. Dad sat on one end of the table, and Mom on the other. I sat between them.
“How was your day?” my mom asked my dad.
I looked at my dad. He was just shoveling his spaghetti down, eyes on the table.
“Fine.”
She took a bite, chewing slowly. “Mine too. It’s been busy at work.”
Nobody said anything. I just ate my spaghetti. Dinner was always quiet lately.
My mom dabbed her face with a napkin. “Sara, are any of the kids … giving you trouble?”
I glanced at her warily. “No.”
“Ms. Hugger emailed me something this evening.”
My dad was watching me now too. “I didn’t see this email.”
“She mentioned an incident where another student might have said something.”
“Ms. Hugger likes to exaggerate,” I said.
“Kids can be rough sometimes,” she said. “They don’t understand … differences.”
“What did they say?” my dad asked.